4 Plagued by Quilt (21 page)

“Because old bones aren’t nearly as nasty as budgets,” said Mel. “And I brought spicy flatbreads. See if you think they’ll work well next to salads.”

“Now you’re talking sense,” Thea said.

We put aside our needles and yarn to help ourselves from the plate on the Welsh dresser. The flatbreads were about four inches in diameter, a quarter of an inch thick, tender, buttery, salty, and spicy.

“What—,” I started to ask.

Mel read my mind and went into hyper-recipe mode. “Cumin seeds, peppercorns, and fresh cilantro, besides the salt. You flatten a small ball of dough into a disk, spread the disk with melted butter and the seasonings, roll the disk into a cylinder like a jelly roll, coil the cylinder into another disk, flatten the disk, and cook it in a skillet, flipping it once to catch both sides for a couple of minutes each. What do you think? I’m experimenting with size. Traditional size would be like a tortilla.”

“You should open a café or something,” Thea said. “You’re that good.”

“Do you like the bread or not, Red?” Mel asked. “What are you thinking over there?”

I was thinking
mm-mm
and what a shame that Joe missed the bread, because it was delicious. Then I thought about Phillip and the interesting selection of spices on his kitchen counter, and how he might have liked Mel’s breads. But the way I’d learned about his spices kept me from sharing that information. Then I thought about the pictures of the documents from his file, still on my phone. And then my thoughts skipped back to Joe and deliciousness.

“Hon, you carry the weight of your worries so plainly on your face. You want to be sure you never kill anyone.”

“Good tip, Ardis. Thanks.”

“And that is a perennial problem with these investigations,” she said. “The villains don’t make it easy for us. Not a one of our suspects is ever walking around out there plagued by guilt.”

“What if we turned that thought around?” John said. “Who should be affected by Phillip’s death but isn’t? I think that goes back to Kath’s second question on the whiteboard again: ‘What drives an ordinary person to think killing will fix a problem?’ What if, instead of looking for someone who looks guilty, we look for the person walking around Blue Plum who looks relieved?”

“I can tell you that person isn’t Grace,” Ernestine said. “She has very definitely been affected by Phillip’s death. And I think that’s another point in her favor.”

“Prisoner’s remorse,” Thea said.

“I don’t think so,” said Ernestine. “I do not think so.”

“Nadine seems to have bounced back,” I said to distract them.

“How so?” Ardis asked.

“I hadn’t really thought about it, but she was in shock to begin with. Visibly upset and short-tempered, as who wouldn’t be? Now, not so many days later, she’s on top of things and back in control.”

“The way a professional should be,” Thea said.

“You’re right.”

“But?” Ardis asked.

“No, she really is.”

“But?”

I shrugged. “But she’s got a lot to handle, considering that her workload has suddenly increased, and now she’ll
have to go through the process of searching, interviewing, and hiring again, in addition to finishing this major program and gearing up for her first fall at the Homeplace, and all the school visits. Under
ordinary
circumstances that’s a lot. But she’s got the added stress of extraordinary circumstances—a murder and the unexpected discovery of a couple of skeletons. Of course, she has her right-hand board member, Wes, helping out.”

“You see competence and responsibility as suspicious?” Thea asked.

“I see Nadine’s behavior as one of the many pieces we’re trying to fit together. Wes is another piece.”

“Piece of what?” Mel asked.

“We don’t know.” That was a chorus of at least three—John, Ardis, and Ernestine.

“The biggest piece of
mmhmm-whatever
in this whole thing is Phillip Bell,” Thea said.

“And that’s what makes me think this might have something to do with his research,” John said. “He arrived at his new job. He read up on the history of the site. An aspect of the history caught his eye, and he started his own research. The skeletons were found in the dump. That discovery excited him further—that’s right, isn’t it, Kath?”

“Yes. That’s why we were meeting the next morning. He knew the name Geneva. We were going to compare notes.”

“Think of the money poured into the Holston Homeplace over the years,” John said, “state funds and private funds. Think of all those Holstons and the foundation they created to support the site. Think of the pride invested, as well as the money. What if the discovery of the skeletons dropped a piece into place for Phillip, and
what if the skeletons were going to help him prove a theory he’d hatched? Something that would rock the site and the benefactors?”

“It would rock the town, too,” Ardis said. “Are you talking about something scandalous?”

“How about ruinous?” said John.

J
ohn took a moment to wipe butter from each of his fingers, and then picked up his knitting again. None of the rest of us moved. We might have stopped breathing as we waited for the rest of his “what if.”

“Ruinous how?” Mel finally burst.

“Well, now,” John said, “that’s the question, isn’t it? But as Thea said, it’s only been a few days. It’s going to take more time for all of this. But I’d say investors and passion, and especially unhappy investors and passion go together, and connecting that hackle with Phillip’s neck was a passionate act of extreme unhappiness.”

“Proof,” Thea said, “is lacking.”

“That’s the sad truth,” I said. “We don’t have much proof of anything, for either case. But I do have some more names that might help us find out who our skeletons are. They’re from the Spiveys’ Plague Quilt.”

“And the sad truth about that quilt is that it’s exquisite,” Ernestine said. “And a touch macabre, because of the coffins.”

Thea snorted. “Ernestine, you kill me.”

“But not literally, dear.” Ernestine patted Thea on the knee. “You’re too valuable to the community.”

I told them about the coffins and the names on the
quilt. “Rebecca made the quilt at the time of the cholera epidemic of 1879. It’s sort of a signature quilt, except all the names are in the same handwriting, which isn’t typical. I think they’re all friends or family who died in the epidemic.”

“Are the skeletons cholera victims?” Ardis asked.

“I don’t think so,” I said, “but it’s certainly possible.”

“We’ve got the
Bugle
on microfiche from back then,” Thea said. “If you’ve got names, it wouldn’t be too hard to look for them. It was a chaotic time, though. People fleeing, people who stayed behind dying. People who fled probably died, too. The records are undoubtedly not complete.”

“But worth looking at,” I said.

“But, boy, wouldn’t chaos be a great cover for murder?” Mel added. “There’s no record of Kath’s double murder. Maybe that’s because no one knew they’d been killed. Kill them, dump them, and put out a story that they’d fled like so many others. How many people left and never came back to Blue Plum and were never heard from again? It must have happened at least a few times.”

“That would explain it,” I said. “Oh my gosh, that could explain the classified ads, and why none of them were reported missing. The perfect crime at the perfect, chaotic time.”

*   *   *

Geneva wasn’t at the bottom of the stairs or in the kitchen when the meeting was over. She’d probably lost interest when no one challenged her. Ardis was out of sorts herself, as we went through our end-of-business-day routine. Argyle tried to catch her attention by catching at her ankle as she walked past. She jumped but didn’t say anything to him. When she and I stood next to
each other balancing the cash register, she suddenly laid the stack of ones she’d been counting on the counter.

“Can you and Debbie handle the shop alone tomorrow?” she asked.

“I guess.”

Argyle leapt up on the counter and sniffed at the ones. Ardis didn’t say anything. I finished counting the fives and looked at her.

She stood with her head bowed and palms flat on the counter. Her eyes were closed.

“Ardis? What’s the matter?”

“I don’t know.”

I grabbed the tall stool and tried to get her to sit. She wouldn’t. She stayed where she was, hands still flat on the counter.

“Ardis, of course Debbie and I can handle it. No question. Come on now. Sit down.”

“I’m fine. I feel fine.” She opened her eyes. “I don’t know what this is . . .” She trailed off, rubbing her ear. “A day off might do me good, though.”

“By all means. Take more if you need to. Get some good naps in. That’s what Argyle recommends.”

Argyle pushed the pile of ones into less of a stack and lay down on them.

“No, I don’t think a nap will do anything for me. I really do feel fine. Maybe some fresh air.”

“You’ve been working too hard while I lollygag out there at the Homeplace.”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so. But I’ll run on home now. I’ll see you Monday.” She looked around the shop, squinting as though her eyes hurt. She turned to leave, turned back, looked around again, and shook her head.

“Ardis? Phone me when you get home, okay?”

“Good night.”

I looked around after she left. “Geneva?”

No answer.

*   *   *

Ardis called me half an hour later, just as I was beginning to worry.

“The fresh air is already doing me good,” she said. “I decided to take a walk when I got home. I put Daddy in his chair and the two of us are having a constitutional. It’s doing us both good. Daddy’s feeding the ducks in the park and I had a brainstorm. It’s been years since I’ve been out to the Homeplace, and I don’t know if Daddy’s ever been. Do you think Nadine will be there tomorrow?”

“Most likely.”

“Then I think I’ll take Daddy tomorrow. Maybe we can sweet-talk Nadine into giving us a personal tour.”

“Ask her to show you around while you talk about the herb festival she’s planning for the spring. She wants us to do a natural-dye workshop.”

“Perfect entrée. Thank you, hon. Good night.”

*   *   *

I called Mel after hanging up with Ardis. “That flatbread was perfect. Thanks for bringing it. Really delicious.”

“Yeah? What are you really calling about? You aren’t one for idle chitchat on the phone.”

“Fredda said something to me. It made me wonder.”

“Well, I’m not going to sit here wondering for too long. I have to be up before you even want to know in the morning. What’d she say, and what’s it to me?”

“That she’d heard I was dating the more delicious of the two Dunbars.”

Mel was quiet.

I interrupted her quiet with apologies. “Forget it. Forget I said anything. I’m being insecure.”

“I don’t remember hearing anything about Fredda and Joe,” Mel said.

“And it’s not like he’s seeing her now, so really, forget it. It’s just the way she said ‘delicious.’”

“I’ll check around.”

“Thanks.”

*   *   *

After I talked to Mel, I called John and told him I had pictures of some documents I’d like to send him. “They’re pictures of photocopies Phillip had. And I don’t have pictures of all the documents, so you might not be able to tell anything from them. They might fit in or add to your ‘what if,’ though.”

“Send them along. I’ll see what I can make of them.”

“And if you don’t mind, I’d appreciate it if you don’t say anything to anyone else about the pictures.”

“Silence guaranteed.”

*   *   *

“We’ll need to be quiet as soon as we’re near the creek,” Joe said. “It’d be better if we didn’t smell, either.”

“I didn’t know otters were so fussy. Would it help if I have the clam chowder and dab some behind my ears?”

“They’re smart critters. Probably smart alecks, too.”

It was Saturday evening, and we were waiting our turn to order at Mel’s before taking off on our much-anticipated trek to look for the family of river otters Joe had seen. Mel’s was hopping, but the line moved fast. Mel worked the counter, her spiked hair helping the overall impression of frenetic efficiency. The checks in her houndstooth apron matched the midnight blue and aqua in her hair.

“Evening, you two,” Mel said when we reached the
counter. “Thank you for making the café part of your date-night experience. I hope you don’t mind if I belabor the fact that you’re dating, but you’re darned cute when I do, because you both blush. What can I get you?”

“Popeye Salad with a side of the spicy flatbread,” I said. “Glad to see you put that on the menu.”

“I’ll have the same,” Joe said. “Sounds delicious.”

Mel caught my wince. “Speaking of delicious sides,” Mel said, “here’s a little dish you might not have heard.” She crooked a finger for us to lean closer and then lowered her voice. “For a short while after Fredda came to town, she and Cole were something of an item. A quiet item, as far as the general public is concerned, not unlike you two, but an item nonetheless. This is bona fide information from two independent reliable sources, names to be supplied on request.” She stood up, voice back at normal volume. “Now move along, you two, and quit holding up the line.”

“Did you know that?” I asked Joe as we went to find a table.

“No, but it’s not surprising. Kind of hard to picture, though.”

“Would he overlook a suspect if he’d been involved with her?”

“That’s even harder to picture.”

We took a booth being vacated by a touristy couple. Joe took a napkin and swept most of the crumbs and salt left behind to the end of the table.

“Makes you wonder, though.” He balanced the octagonal salt shaker on some of the salt he’d missed. “The man does have a heart.”

*   *   *

We drove past the Holston Homeplace and up a winding, narrowing road into the wooded foothills. When the
road turned to gravel, then to rutted dirt with the occasional spring-jouncing rock, and finally petered out into a cleared area hardly big enough to turn around in, we stopped and got out.

“Otters are more curious than cats, but shy, so we might not see them,” Joe said. “I’d been sitting a while when I saw them.” He grabbed our backpacks from the bed of his truck and tossed mine to me. “The creek’s about a ten-minute walk from here.”

“A loping Joe walk or a Kath walk?”

He adjusted his stride. “Fifteen minutes, then.”

“How long were you sitting?”

“Two, three hours. We won’t stay that long or it’ll be dark. Bacon Branch is a pretty creek. We’ll find you a rock above the bank to sit on. You’ll like it.”

“What’ll you be doing?”

“I brought something along.”

“If there’s a Bacon Branch, is there an Egg Branch?”

“And a Tomato and a Lettuce and an On Rye Branch.” He helped me over a downed tree. “There are several Bacon families in the area. My favorite creek names are Dry Creek and Stinking Creek. No idea where the ‘Stinking’ comes from. Someone told me there was a sulfur spring along it somewhere, but I never found it, and the creek smells good enough to me.”

“Maybe the otters would disagree.”

“We’re getting close enough, let’s hush.”

*   *   *

I sat on a limestone boulder above the creek—the rock dark gray and cool. The water, gliding past below, turned golden where a few shafts of sunlight reached it; otherwise it ran a clear, cold, dark green. Birds called and answered through the trees. I heard insects, leaf rustlings,
the deep gurgle-splash of the creek, and not much else. Joe sat on another water-tumbled boulder, painting in a small sketchbook. The otters stayed away. Before we hiked back out, Joe showed me his watercolor sketch.

“It’s beautiful. I don’t know how you make the water look real like that. And the rocks and the trees. I’m pretty sure, though, that I’m wearing jeans and a T-shirt.”

“You look good this way, too.”

*   *   *

Sunday morning I remembered I’d promised to take the baby hats to the hospital over in Stonewall. What a shame. Laundry and cleaning the house would have to wait. As I pulled away from the last stop sign at the edge of town, a car came up behind me, closer than I liked. I looked in the rearview mirror to give the other driver the evil eye. The other driver was Fredda.

Fredda stayed with me. I slowed. She slowed. I resumed speed and so did she. She wasn’t on my bumper. She wasn’t hunched over the steering wheel, snarling and slavering after me. But she followed me on that winding road with too few houses or open businesses. Could it be called a car chase, I wondered, if we drove at the speed limit? I could have pulled off or turned down another road, but I didn’t know the area between Blue Plum and Stonewall well enough, and I didn’t want to end up cornered somewhere the sun didn’t shine and my phone had no reception. Cornered in the ambulance zone at the ER would be okay. They knew how to treat victims of mayhem there. That was a comforting thought, because she stayed with me all the way to the hospital.